


Exhausted

by stpitbull



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stpitbull/pseuds/stpitbull





	1. Chapter 1

"Sit."  
  
"But we have--"  
  
"Sit down."  
  
"It's just a few more--"  
  
" _Sit. Down._ "  
  
Wesley sighed, finally letting himself be bonelessly maneuvered by Arcade's big hands on his shoulders, until he was being guided down onto a dirty couch. "The Mojave is not going to fall apart if you take a day off," Arcade said firmly.  
  
"It might," Wesley objected weakly. "You don't know."  
  
"Nonsense, I know everything," Arcade said airily, moving around the couch to stand in front of the courier. "And I know those bags under your eyes have gone from pocketbooks to steamer trunks since I met you."   
  
"That is a flawed metaphor."  
  
"Shush."   
  
"I'm just saying, I've come to expect a certain level of wit from you."  
  
"Stop talking." Arcade knelt before him, and Wesley noted with no small amount of frustration that he was too exhausted to get excited by the vision of the good doctor on his knees, in such close proximity to his lap. Because Arcade was right, damn him. Even as he felt the need to get up, keep moving, insist he was the boss and the boss says it's world-saving time, he could feel his bones melting, his joints singing out a chorus of a thousand hallelujahs over the fact that they weren't in motion. And his  _feet_ . He was a courier by trade, he was built to just keep going and his feet were not allowed to complain. But they were burning in his boots. Now that he was sitting, Wesley was so exhausted he could just about cry.  
  
Arcade gingerly lifted his left wrist from where it was resting on his knee, and began deftly removing the Pip-Boy that hung there like a manacle.  
  
"Hey, wait, no," Wesley protested. "I need that. I need that to do stuff."  
  
"You're not doing anymore stuff tonight. As of right now, you are serving a sentence of mandatory relaxation." Arcade set the Pip-Boy aside, and took Wesley's right hand in both of his. He began gently digging his fingertips into the bowl of Wesley's palm, dragging with purpose to the center and back.  
  
"Jesus tits and god America, I did not even know my hands hurt," Wesley groaned, letting his head fall back and his eyelids drop closed. "How did  _you_  know my hands hurt?"  
  
"Observation," Arcade said simply, working his thumb through the meat of Wesley's palm. "You rub your hands more than you know, particularly after you've insisted on keeping a workbench company for a few hours. And the closer you are to passing out, the more you do it."  
  
"Didn't know I did that," Wesley said, giving another groan as Arcade's fingers did something particularly fantastic to the middle knuckle of his thumb.  
  
"You do. For an accomplished card-player you have a shocking number of tells."  
  
"Only to you. 'Cause you're watchin' me." Wesley lifted his head. "'Cause you think I'm  _pre-tty_ ."

  
"Sing-song? Really? And you're disappointed in  _my_  level of parlance for the night."  
  
Wesley just grinned at Arcade until he glanced up over his glasses and chuckled a little before returning his focus to massaging his companion's hands. "Seriously, though," Arcade said after a beat, voice a little softer, "you've been running yourself ragged, even by wasteland standards. Even by  _Follower_  standards. I know you have a hero complex that could dwarf the Dam but I'm-- you should just take care of yourself more often."  
  
The false start of personal claim to concern was not lost on Wesley. Even once their status had gotten that delicious upgrade to "friend with benefits" there was still this unspoken wall there, trying to keep things from getting too intimate. And every time Wesley showed up with his Sledgehammer of Feelings and tried to make a breakthrough, Arcade had the Mortar and Trowel of Let's Keep This On The Level, frantically trying to deflect personal questions and expressions of attachment with all the grace and suavity of a poledancing Deathclaw. (Okay, wow, Wesley revoked his own metaphor-criticism rights, but whatever, he was exhausted.

And that was okay, Wesley had decided. Sadly. It was a compromise. Not one he was particularly happy about but he could handle it. There were precious few respites to be had in the wasteland, especially with the war and his position therein escalating like it was, and even with the barricade between them he couldn't remember ever finding anyone who made him feel as good as Arcade did. He could deal with doing the unrequited thing. So long as the object of his unrequited affections stuck around.

  
He was dragged from his little reverie by nimble fingers snapping in front of his eyes. He gave his head a quick shake. "Whazzat?" he mumbled.  
  
"I said, 'what are you snickering about'," Arcade said patiently.  
  
"I snickered?"  
  
"You snickered."  
  
"Oh. Sorry. Just had a... funny mental image. It involved Deathclaws. I will not apologize. Can you keep doing the thing where you make my hands feel amazing?"  
  
Arcade sighed with a sort of weary affection, even as he did so, his massage process now migrated over to Wes' left hand. "And then, you're sleeping." Wesley whined a little, but Arcade cut him off. "You  _are_ . Because if you keep going at this rate, you're going to burn out completely, and  _then_  who's going to get way too involved in a landscape-shifting war because they let their hero complex run on autopilot too long?"  
  
"Someone far less handsome, I can tell you that much." That got him a little pinch on his wrist, to which he responded with a noise that was very manly and not at all a squeak. And after a few moments of silence, he sighed. "Okay. You win. I'm exhausted. You're right."  
  
"I know."  
  
"It's just... there's  _so much to do_ ," Wesley said, helplessness tinging the edges of his sleepy voice. "It seems like every time I fix one place there's somewhere else that's in peril and, and... Dammit, why can't the world just  _stay saved_ ?"  
  
Arcade chuckled warmly. "I know. It's frustrating. But you can take one night to sleep. And I mean  _sleep_ , not wake me up every five minutes because you feel the need to check a note on your godforsaken Pip-Boy. I promise the Mojave will not forget by morning that Messiah is your middle name."  
  
"Nng, let 'em think that. I know you're trying to be condescending but whatever, I'm tired. And it's better than Persephone."  
  
"...Excuse me."  
  
"My middle name. Persephone." A noise escape the back of his throat, something embarrassingly close to a moan, as Arcade moved his gentle kneading to Wesley's aching wrists. "Apparently my mama found it in an old world book and thought it sounded romantic."  
  
"Persephone was female."  
  
" _I'm aware_ ."  
  
Arcade snorted, and continued easing the pain Wesley didn't even know had been residing in his wrists. After a long moment of companionable silence, Arcade said, "Israel."  
  
"Mmwhat?"  
  
"My middle name," Arcade said with practiced flippancy, eyes still focused on his ministrations. "It's Israel."  
  
Wesley blinked, telling his stupid heart to get out of his throat, and said, "Your name is  _Arcade Israel Gannon_ ."  
  
Arcade gave him a small laugh, barely a breath, but when he looked up he was smiling.  
  
"Dude," Wesley said flatly. "Where did you  _come_  from?"  
  
And there it was, that little flicker of discomfort in his eyes even as he held his smile. And it stung. But the flicker was quickly chased away by Wesley's declaration of, "You know what, I don't care. You keep doing what you're doing to my hands and I'll call you whatever you tell me to call you."  
  
"Ooh, be careful giving me that kind of power. I can get very creative."  
  
"Yeah. I dare you to come up with something crazier than Arcade Israel Gannon."  
  
"Oh, do shut up, Persephone."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Wes, I'm serious, I will pay you literal money if you learn how to dodge."   
  
Wesley winced, shadows casting oddly on his face in the dim shack that was serving as impromptu shelter. A small tinge of guilt pierced through Arcade's irritation at Wes' pained expression. But only a small one, otherwise he felt wholly justified -- the courier's general lack of awareness for his surroundings was rather consistent in getting them into situations that ranged from "dire" to "thoroughly fucked". Still, he applied the bandages on Wes' wrists a little more gently.   
  
"Stop  _blaming_  me," Wes hissed, more out of pain than malice, "they came outta nowhere."   
  
"Yes. The pack of assassins with the skirts and shiny helmets were virtually invisible as they ran straight for you. Why, they might as well have been wearing Stealth Boys, rather than the gaudiest costumes in the wasteland."   
  
Usually this was the point where Wes would snap back in his own way, usually involving a term like "grumpasaurus" that would make Arcade sputter and temporarily give the courier the upper hand, which he would use to ease the tension somehow, because despite being a veritable magnet for the stuff Arcade had learned Wesley hated nothing so much as conflict. But instead, Wes just deflated a bit more, mumbling, "Okay, I'm sorry."   
  
Arcade sighed. Ah,  _now_  the guilt was having its day. He paused in patching up Wesley to grip his hand. "No. Stop that. I'm sorry, I just... I'm snippy, I know. You kept me up all night again, and god know I need my beauty rest with the way you drag me hither and yon, and then we get attacked by a squad of highly-trained psychopaths because of you acting on your morals, and this litany of excuses sounded much more reasonable in my head, I promise."   
  
Wes chuckled weakly, easing the knot that Arcade hadn't even noticed forming in his belly. "It's okay. Relax," Wes said, Arcade returning to the aforementioned patching up. "I know I'm not... the easiest person to sleep next to."   
  
Arcade tried very hard to focus on closing the bandage he'd been applying to a nasty wound on Wesley's arm. "It seemed like the nightmares had been easing up," he said, keeping his tone as detached as he could manage. "I take it they're back?"   
  
"At least last night, they were," Wes said wearily. "Another... variation on the Nipton thing, it's stupid, forget about it."   
  
"It's not stupid," Arcade conceded softly. "Nothing like nightmares of stuff you actually lived through instead of something fantastical like a Deathclaw poledancer."   
  
A bark of a laugh erupted from Wes' chest. "Again, sorry I planted that in your brain."   
  
"No, no, don't apologize. You taught me a very valuable lesson about never prying into your mental images."   
  
"It's a lesson you had to learn, eventually."   
  
"It wouldn't have killed you to  _warn_  me."   
  
Wes chuckled again, then abruptly stopped when Arcade pulled a super stimpak from his bag. "No nonono, I'm okay, I don't need one of those," he immediately protested, as Arcade knew he would.   
  
"I know they take a lot out of you, but you're sporting some serious internal injuries," Arcade said, his measured Doctor's tone nicely covering up the clench in his gut, the memory of seeing that super sledge smash into Wes' side, the ice cold panic that had shot through him as the young man fell to the ground. (Followed by some thrilling heroics with his plasma pistol that Wes didn't even  _see_ .) "So deal with it. You're out of commission for the night."   
  
Wes' eyes wandered past Arcade and into the rest of the shack behind him. "That bed looks... unsavory."   
  
"I'm not thrilled about it either, but you're not doing any more strenuous movement for the night. Unfortunately. Now give me your arm."   
  
Wes hesitated, looking off into a corner petulantly, before acquiescing and extending his arm. Once the super stimpak was strapped on, he said, "I officially deny responsibility for anything I say once this thing kicks in."   
  
"Yes, I know," Arcade sighed indulgently. It had been well-established that super stimpaks and the accompanying fatigue practically annihilated Wes' filter, worse than any alcohol.

Wes tugged lightly at Arcade's hand. "At least sit next to me if you're gonna put me in maintenance mode."   
  
Arcade smiled, rising from his crouched position and sitting on the couch next to Wes. Wes, who immediately leaned against him, a warm and pleasantly solid weight, head resting against his shoulder.   
  
"You may be snippy when you're sleep-deprived but you're still an excellent pillow," Wes murmured, settling in closer.   
  
"Thank you. A man likes to feel useful."   
  
He heard Wes chuckle, and felt warm fingers lace with his own, their joined hands resting on his thigh. He didn't particularly feel the need to complain. Still, Wes began shifting at his side, unease marked in his movement. Arcade gave his hand what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze -- he wasn't terribly well-versed in this sort of thing, didn't know quite how much pressure to apply to be reassuring.   
  
"Sorry," Wes said, trying to settle again. "Just don't like shacks."   
  
"I will never understand why you feel perfectly at ease out sleeping in the open but not with sturdy walls between you and potential bad guys. Well. Semi-sturdy. Sturdy-ish."   
  
Wes was curiously silent before saying, "Don't like feeling sealed up." He took a breath. "Don't like feeling buried."   
  
Ah, shit. That would be it, wouldn't it. Arcade promptly felt like an ass for not considering it.   
  
He felt Wes shift uncomfortably at his side again. "Shit. Forget it. Pretend I said some appealingly romantic bullshit about sleeping under the stars or something."   
  
"No, hey, relax," Arcade said immediately, trying to rise above his usual jittery, steamrolling attempts at comfort. "It's like with the dreams thing. It's one thing to be afraid of, say, cazadores, because they're fast and scary and can kill you. It's an entirely different thing to be afraid of something more specific to you. Why do you think I have so much trouble sleeping when you're supplying sudden sounds and movements?" He faltered. "I mean. That's. Uh."   
  
"Arcade," Wesley said archly. "You've been inside me. You can tell me your fears, okay? We're there."   
  
Arcade gave a surprised chuff of laughter, and paused before willing himself to speak. "My childhood... wasn't exactly what you'd call peaceful," he said, the truth like trying to pull a massive thorn out of his chest. "Don't get me wrong, I was surrounded with enough love, I just... There may or may not have been a time when unscheduled midnight evacuations were necessary. So. The sudden sounds or movements when I'm trying to sleep just got... programmed as 'bad', I guess."   
  
Well. That had been appropriately exhausting an admission. But the anxiety of it melted away with Wes gently rubbing his thumb over Arcade's wrist where their hands joined, the simple motion somehow supplying him with comfort. Acceptance. Damn, Wes had the reassuring thing  _down_ .   
  
"Sorry again," Wes said softly. "About how difficult I am to sleep next to."   
  
"Stop apologizing," Arcade said, pressing a quick kiss to Wes' temple. "You're worth it."

The words were simple enough, but their automatic revelation made Arcade feel as though a fist had closed around his heart. He didn't have time to overthink it at his champion skill level, though, thanks to Wes suddenly yawning hugely. "Okay," Arcade said, moving his arm to support Wes' waist, "over to the bed. I can support you but I cannot for the life of me carry you."   
  
"You are tree-sized, good sir," Wesley said with sleepy drama as he allowed himself to be pulled up, "I refuse to believe you could not carry me. You underestimate your strength."   
  
"You underestimate your  _weight_ ," Arcade said, guiding Wesley to the unpleasant, sheetless bed.   
  
Wesley curled onto his side facing the wall as Arcade lay down next to him. "Apologies in advance," Wes said over his shoulder.   
  
" _Stop apologizing_ ," Arcade groaned.   
  
"Force of habit," Wes yawned again. "You weren't the only one with a messed-up childhood."   
  
Wesley was asleep in less than a minute. Record time. Just as Arcade started wondering if he should invest in super stimpaks and invent an ailment so that he could get the courier to actually sleep once in a while, the twitching started. The soft involuntary jerks and muffled noises of pain and fear that accompanied the worst of the courier's nightmares. Despite his earlier protests, Arcade couldn't exactly find fault with him. The courier had survived things that would have broken men of lesser fortitude. Not to say it was deserved, not at all, but he had  _earned_  his unrest.   
  
But that unrest was causing him to unravel, Arcade was seeing more and more. Wes just couldn't help but  _push_  himself, taking on suicide missions like it was no problem, unable to turn down the smallest cry for help, carrying a complete stranger's burden as his own. And he managed to piss off the Legion at _every goddamn opportunity_ . Arcade hated the beskirted slavers too, but it was like Wes was provoking them sometimes. Like he thought he could thin their numbers if enough squads of assassins were sent out to meet their death. Of all the handsome bachelors to come waltzing into the Old Mormon Fort and toss Arcade a flirty grin, why couldn't it have been an indoorsy type?   
  
Well, then it wouldn't have been Wes.   
  
Arcade sighed to no one, looked over at the brave, stubborn idiot that he was head over heels for. Wondered if he should tell him someday. Or if that'd just be another burden on his shoulders.   
  
Wes gave a particularly pained sound, a high keen in the back of his throat. As if some sudden instinct had kicked in, Arcade rolled onto his side, fitting his long body to Wes', gently circling an arm over the young man's broad chest. He vaguely debated what to do with his other arm, settling on angling it under his pillow. That arm would be sore in the morning, no doubt. But Wes stopped twitching. Instead he shifted slightly, making a sleep-addled inquisitive noise.   
  
"It's me," Arcade said. "I've got you."   
  
Wes practically melted under his arm, and was snoring softly in seconds.   
  
Arcade spent the next day rolling his shoulder every few minutes trying to dispel the ache of sleeping on it wrong, but it was worth it to see the circles under Wes' eyes a shade or two lighter.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"Maybe if you send Caesar a muffin basket," Arcade said, "maybe he'd lighten up on you."   
  
Wesley coughed. It sounded unpleasant. "The hell's a muffin basket?" he asked, his voice a gravelly ghost of what Arcade was used to.   
  
Arcade shifted the heavy, broken body in his arms, trying not to cause any more damage as he carried him to Freeside. To the Old Mormon Fort. Or hell, anywhere, anywhere close enough that had medicine. The nearest merchant selling a doctor's bag. He silently swore for the fiftieth time to never, ever decide it would be fine to trek anywhere in the goddamned Mojave without a full complement of medical supplies. It would never be safe enough.   
  
"It's a pre-war thing," Arcade answered. "Sending someone a basket full of something delicious. To apologize, to say congratulations. To... to get into their pants."   
  
Wesley laughed weakly, and Arcade counted it as a victory. If he was still engaged, if he was still laughing at his lame jokes, then he was still fighting. "Don't think Caesar is the... whadja call it? A what basket?"   
  
"Muffin basket."   
  
"Don't think Caesar is the muffin type. Maybe a basket full of... full of livers or something. Full of Deathclaw hearts."   
  
"Full of severed fingers."   
  
"Severed middle fingers. Collected from Legion corpses."   
  
"I think you're missing the point of the muffin basket."   
  
Wesley chuckled again, then coughed. "Don't get..." he struggled to say, a bloody smile on his face, eyes closed, "...why they always focus on me. S' _yer_  fault I'm not dead yet."   
  
"Won't be long before they realize that, I'm sure," Arcade said. "I should just let them take you next time. Maybe then I can get some sleep already."   
  
He waited. No comeback, no witty comment to trump his through the pain like the sun fighting to get a beam out through a din of clouds. Arcade was met only with Wesley's ragged, slowing breathing.   
  
"I didn't mean that," he said breathlessly to the sleeping body, a rock in his chest as his arms tightened around Wes and his legs pressed them forward. "I didn't, it was a joke. You can keep me awake every night for the rest of my life, just-- just hold on,  _please_ ."   
  
  
  
Wesley woke up and promptly wished he hadn't. Of all the senses to come back to him, "touch" was not exactly the most welcome. His whole body was stiff and sore -- he felt like he had been trampled. He assumed. If he were pressed to describe what it was like to be trampled, he would use this feeling as a base.   
  
The rest of him was still in a fog. He lay still, trying to remember how he got where he was. Where he was. Like dim figures in the fog, he started hearing things. Voices. Two nearby.   
  
"...possible excuse for this?" He knew that voice. Kind of. He could vaguely place it. The head honcho of the Followers in Freeside. Julie? He had only met her at least once, he knew, and Arcade had referenced her. He hadn't been to Freeside in a long time. Once Arcade had agreed to come with him, he hadn't seen much reason to go back.   
  
"He went after one of the Fiend leaders." There was Arcade. Wesley's whole body relaxed a little at the sound of his voice. "A real monster with a lot of back-up."   
  
"Why?"   
  
"Because someone asked him to, why do you think?" Arcade didn't sound well. Sounded tense. More than just snippy from sleep-deprivation. "Anyway. He won the fight but I used up most of my supplies patching him up afterward. We were on our way back when we walked into another Legion ambush."   
  
That's right. Wesley remembered now. Remembered Arcade carrying him. It got fuzzy in the middle of that. He remembered recounting all the people he'd promised to help but hadn't yet, and regretting all the things he never got a chance to say.

He heard Julie sigh. The kind of guileless put-upon sigh only a Follower could pull off. "Sounds like remarkably bad luck over carelessness, I suppose. Well, he's stable. He'll just be out of it for a few more hours. Your bed's still available -- why don't you go get some rest. We'll keep an eye on him, let you know when he's up."   
  
"Don't bother, I'm staying with him."   
  
"...Gannon, how long have you been awake?"   
  
"I'm staying with him."   
  
Wesley knew he should make himself get up. The tense note in Arcade's voice was just icing -- there was still so much to do. They had only gotten one of the Fiend leaders, there were still more out there. And after that he still had the whole "single-handedly defeating the Legion" thing to do. But he lay still. Being trampled took a lot out of a guy. He heard Julie sigh again, and the quiet rustle of canvas as she left. Heard Arcade's soft footsteps pad closer to him. Felt cool, long fingers gently take his hand. Heard a deep breath, and Arcade whispering, "If anyone offers you any pomegranate seeds, for the love of all that his holy don't take them."   
  
Wesley wished he were well enough to tell him that he got the joke, and drifted back asleep with the feeling of fingertips threading through his hair.   
  
  
  
He felt significantly less trampled when he woke up the second time. Still unusually stiff, but he could handle that. He stretched, inhaling deeply, joints cracking loudly, and heard a soft "Oh thank god" and the rustling of clothes from his left. His eyes blearily opened -- it was dark in the tent, a little light being cast from a lamp on the ground. He turned his head, and Arcade was there.   
  
"You're awake," Arcade was saying breathlessly, standing over him. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for a very long time and repeated himself, softly, reverently, "You're awake."   
  
Wesley responded with an eloquent, "Hrm?"   
  
"Are you okay? Are you still hurting?" Arcade asked, suddenly animated, voice louder but a little frayed around the edges. "You probably still need at least a cursory going-over before they'll let you go. Not that we need to go, really, not right away or anything. Can I get you anything? I'm guessing you're thirsty. And you probably want to wash the-- the blood off of your face, someone tried to come in earlier to clean you up but I may have snarled at them that you needed rest. Not my finest moment, I'm s--"   
  
Wesley reached up one sore arm and placed his hand behind Arcade's neck, fingertips brushing through the short hair at his nape, tugging him down gently. Arcade allowed himself to be tugged, bending down, letting himself be guided until he was softly resting his forehead against Wesley's and letting his eyes fall closed. He inhaled deeply, his own hand coming around cup the courier's face, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. "Thank you for not dying," he said quietly.   
  
Wesley chuckled. "That's my specialty."   
  
"I think it's time we had a serious discussion about the frequency with which you almost die. Are you aware that I am uncomfortable with how frequently you almost die?"   
  
"I warned you when I asked you to travel with me that my life is a series of near-death experiences."   
  
"I remember. I thought you were just trying to sound interesting." He rose, Wesley letting his hand slip from Arcade's neck to run down his shoulder and arm and loosely clasp around his fingers. "Okay. Less frantic now. Do you need anything?"   
  
Wesley hesitated, running the pad of his thumb over Arcade's knuckles, the weight of responsibility seeping back into his bones.   
  
"I know that face," Arcade said. Wesley hadn't even been aware of making a face. "You don't need to get up. You don't need to shift back world-saving mode just yet, you need to keep resting."   
  
"I  _want_  to keep resting," Wesley said hoarsely. "That's the problem. With that comes guilt."

Wesley braced himself for a dressing down about how foolish the guilt was, maybe a few more jabs about a hero complex, but Arcade just sighed, still resting his hand on Wesley's cheek. "Listen," he said. "I had a lot of time to think while I was preparing to go all Orpheus on you if needed--"   
  
"That was for Eurydice."   
  
"I know, it's--"   
  
"Unless I'm queen of the Underworld in this scenario and you're trying to save some other bitch."   
  
"It's nice to see you're feeling better. Now shush."   
  
"Sorry. It was a lovely sentiment. Just flawed in mythological consistency. Now what were you thinking about."   
  
Arcade took a deep breath. "Okay. The thing is, we're in Freeside. And I know you hate anything with walls, and I know you don't feel like a complete person if you're not dragging yourself from one end of wastes to the other. But I'm--" He stopped short, averting his eyes for a second. "I must have practiced this argument five times in my head. It was a lot easier when you were asleep."   
  
"It's okay," Wesley said simply. "Take your time."   
  
"I can't stand watching you kill yourself," Arcade forced out. "Your itinerary of the impossible is all very noble and I admire your drive to help people but I can't watch you burn yourself out. And if you keep going at the pace you're going then you're going to wind up just another scorch mark on the road. And you are  _so much more_  than that."   
  
Wesley could feel his heart catching in his throat (and not in a way that could be attributed to massive bloodloss), but stayed silent, keeping his face passive and looking at Arcade, prompting him to continue.   
  
"So here's my proposal," Arcade pressed forward. "Freeside needs a lot of help too. Even here at the Fort, things are somehow even worse than I remember them being. And I'm sure if you walk around seeking out those in need, as you are wont to do, you'll find plenty. Is any of this getting through?"   
  
"It is," Wesley said quietly. And it was. And Wesley was all ready to protest the hell out of it -- not now, not when there was so much to get done. But there was a weariness in his chest that he couldn't fight through to make all his perfectly valid arguments for why he needed to get back out into the Mojave and into harm's way at harm's earliest convenience. He sighed heavily, suddenly even more tired than before. "Can I just... not make a decision right now?"   
  
Arcade smiled softly. "Of course. Just... think about it? When you've gotten more rest?"   
  
"Yeah. This rest thing is weird. How do people do it?"   
  
Arcade chuckled. "I'll convert you to its ways yet, I promise you. Is there anything I can do to help acclimate you?"   
  
"Just... would you stay with me? And keep talking? The sound of your voice is basically heaven right now, even when you're trying to talk me out of being myself."   
  
"I'm trying to talk you out of being a version of yourself that  _dies_ ." Arcade withdrew his hand as if he'd forgotten it was there, Wesley's skin suddenly cooler than he was ready for. He shifted into a more comfortable position while Arcade sat down in a chair by his cot. "Do you want me to talk about anything specific or just ramble at you? I could recite all my failed experimental findings at you, I'm sure that would put you right to sleep."

" Actually..." Wesley's head felt fuzzy. It was making it markedly difficult to feel self-conscious. "How weird would it be if I wanted you to read to me? One of those pre-war books I carry around."

  
"You mean the fifteen pounds in your pack that could make room for more water and medicine?"   
  
"Yes, those."   
  
Arcade smiled. "Sure. Whatever you want." He tugged over Wesley's laden rucksack that was resting near his chair. "Any preference?"   
  
" _Leaves of Grass_ ?"   
  
"Can we go with something a little less death-centric, after today?"   
  
"Fine, then whatever."   
  
Arcade shuffled through the well-preserved tomes carefully nestled in Wesley's rucksack, pausing on one and tugging it out. "This one is new," he remarked.   
  
Wesley's eyes cracked open. "Yeah, picked it up a few days ago. Pablo Neruda. I had a copy of it years ago but it got destroyed in a brushfire. Do you know how hard it is to find second copies of things?" Arcade chuckled then nodded gravely, and Wesley closed his eyes. "Go with that one."   
  
He heard the rustle of pages, and a pause. "It's all in Spanish."   
  
"Yep."   
  
"Okay?"   
  
"Don't pretend Latin is the only other language you know. That's just not like you. Plus Latin's like a foundation for approximately one billion other languages. Makes it eighty-eight percent easier to learn them."   
  
"I think your statistics are flawed."   
  
But Arcade read, stumbling over the occasional word but making an impressive show of it. Although frankly he could have been rattling off those failed experiments and Wesley would have enjoyed it. Arcade's voice had this manner of knitting itself into his bones.   
  
After a few poems, Arcade stopped. "Are you still awake?" he asked cautiously.   
  
"Yeah," Wesley admitted quietly. "Sorry, I've just... gotten used to you sleeping behind me."   
  
"...I hate to say it but I don't think we'd fit. Those cots are small enough already when there's just one giant in them."   
  
"I know. Relax, just keep reading."   
  
He heard Arcade flip to another page and pause again. "This one's dog-eared," he said softly. "And underlined."   
  
"What's it called?"   
  
"Soneto XVII?"   
  
"Oh yeah," Wesley murmured. "I'd been waiting for a time to tear that out and give it to you." Some part of his mind that was aware of the rules between them starting jumping up and down, loudly protesting the dangerous move. But Wesley was too tired to care, too tired to lie right now. But when Arcade's silence grew, he hesitantly added, "I just thought you'd like it. Read it?"   
  
Arcade hastily cleared his throat and began.   
  
Wesley tried to hang on to the words, but a weight was cleared from his chest, something he didn't even know had been burdening him, and he felt the warm rush of sleep suddenly overtaking him.   
  
" _Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde, te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera..._ "   
  
Wesley was asleep before the poem's end. He would not know until months later that Arcade was up the rest of the night, inadvertently committing it to memory.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey."   
  
Arcade was amazed that one word could undo him. Things were definitely not going according to plan if that was all it took. But he looked over his shoulder, like he wouldn't know that voice anywhere. Like he hadn't been aching for it for the past two months.   
  
"Hey yourself," he said, proud of himself for sounding so casual. He stood, unsure of how to greet his guest. It just didn't seem like a handshake was appropriate for someone whose naked body he had memorized. The way Wes tensed slightly when he took a step forward stayed all action on his part, anyway.    
  
Wes looked... good. His hair was even longer, dirty blonde locks tucked behind one ear. His tan skin was a shade or two darker. There were a few more lines around his eyes, premature aging of a stressful life. Arcade briefly wondered who the fuck he was trying to fool, because he looked like Wes, and he looked like Home.   
  
"How was New Canaan?" he asked, standing with his hands jammed awkwardly in his pockets.   
  
"It wasn't," Wes said, an odd weight in the way he shrugged. "Was in Zion for a while. Long story."   
  
"Ah." Arcade shifted his weight from one foot to the other.   
  
"How's research?" Wes asked, vaguely gesturing to the desk Arcade had risen from.   
  
Arcade looked at the desk behind him, a step in the odd dance of gestures between two people ignoring the Deathclaw in the room. "Oh, you know," he said, turning back. "Boring."   
  
"You always said it was."   
  
"Yeah."    
  
"Well."   
  
"This is some quality small talk."   
  
A wry half-grin lit up Wes' face for a moment, and Arcade's heart swelled like the idiot it was. It never knew what was best for him, always trying to get its say in. Catching in his throat when he read that Spanish poem. Hammering like it was trying to free itself from his ribcage when he told Wesley the next day that it was probably time for them to part ways for a while, that it really wasn't necessary for them to share a bed while Wes was saving Freeside. Aching furiously when he went to bed alone every night for the past two months, trying to forget that look on Wes' face.   
  
"I was just gonna head to the Wrangler for the night," Wesley said, his crossed arms in front of his chest a little less severe. "See if my old room is still mine."   
  
"It probably is," Arcade said. "People still ask me all the time if I've seen you."   
  
Wes chuckled. "Jesus, I was here a whole two weeks."   
  
"Yeah, well. You have this annoying tendency to make an impact wherever you go. Don't pretend they aren't carving your visage into a mountainside over in Zion."   
  
"Mm, no. Just a massive chalk drawing." Arcade couldn't tell if he was joking or not. "Anyway, my point. Come get a drink with me?"   
  
Arcade raised an eyebrow, keeping the unbidden smirk from his face. "Wesley Persephone Baudelaire--"   
  
"I will never stop regretting that I told you my full name."   
  
"Alcohol in a den of inequity? Don't let Julie know you're indulging in such vices. Let alone that you're trying to corrupt  _me_ ."   
  
"Yeah, well, I'm not inviting her, now am I?"   
  
Arcade smiled, shifting off his lab coat and folding it neatly over the back of his chair. "What the hell. You've probably got some good stories from this Zion. It's not like cactus fruit is suddenly going to evolve into usefulness in the next hour."   
  
"It might, just to spite you."   
  
"Mm, true. Damn untrustworthy plantlife."

Wesley had practiced what he was going to say plenty of times during that long, lonely two weeks of solitude traveling back to the Mojave. A very eloquent speech about faith and understanding that eventually rounded up to convincing Arcade to travel with him again. And then, some weeks down the line, when they were back in their old groove, he would super-casually inquire as to why Arcade had felt the need to rip his still-beating heart out of his chest and tear it into tiny shreds. No big deal. Just bros trying to figure out what was up with that, right?   
  
But now they were in a dim, smoky room, sharing amber liquid from across a small table, and Arcade was laughing at some ridiculous story he had just told, one of the few less dramatic ones he'd collected in Zion, and all his little words were slipping away from him.   
  
"So really," he said, pouring himself another drink from the bottle, "how has Freeside been? I half-expected to come back and see everything I had tried to help with had come undone."   
  
Arcade shook his head. "Nope. At least in the Fort, we've had less everyday traffic, more progress in building up supplies. You do good work."   
  
Wesley shrugged and grinned, catching the side of his lower lip in his teeth the way he knew made Arcade crazy (he had his tells too, dammit). "I try."   
  
"How long are you staying in town?" Arcade asked, his stare very focused on pouring himself another drink, a careful task that apparently called for every inch of his attention.   
  
Wesley's stomach did something undefined. "Not sure. Wanna get a feel for the area again, see if anything's changed since I left. Hell, I didn't have the best grasp of the situation when I did leave."   
  
"Right," Arcade said sarcastically, leaning back in his chair with his freshened tumbler. "I'm pretty sure you were the only one with  _any_  grasp of what the situation really was."   
  
Wesley chuffed. "I had hoped being away would give me some perspective, but... there's still so much I don't know what to do with." He looked at Arcade, elegant fingertips loosely tracing the rim of his glass, legs crossed at the knee. "Plus, it's all that much harder when I'm trying to do it alone."   
  
A corner of Arcade's mouth quirked up. "This your way of asking me to join you again?"   
  
Oh,  _now_  he chooses to be straightforward. "Well, I do have this habit of almost dying," Wesley said instead. "I hear it's very annoying."   
  
"Mm, one gets used to it," Arcade said breezily. "Guess I should start looking forward to getting woken up a few dozen times per night again."   
  
And there, something in Wesley's chest seized and before he could stop himself he was setting his drink on the table. "I can't do this anymore."   
  
Arcade blinked eloquently. "Can't do what?"   
  
"Pretend that I'm okay with just being fuck buddies. That I ever was. I can't. Okay? I'm exhausted. I'm exhausted from pretending I'm not in love with you. I have been back for an  _hour_  and already, I'm back to feeling sick over it. I just-- Don't make me pretend anymore."   
  
The silence said everything Arcade wouldn't, and Wesley stood, smoothing down the front of his fatigues in an attempt to do something with his shaking hands. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I do want to travel together again, I just-- We need to figure out some boundaries before we do. I'll see you tomorrow," he said hurriedly as he made his way for the staircase, heading into his corner room without a glance behind him.

He stood a few feet from the door, drawing in a steadying breath. Another. He buried his face in his hands. " _Goddammit_ ," he hissed to the empty room.   
  
He tried to take a deeper breath, and heard the door open and click closed behind him. He'd forgotten to lock it. Footsteps padded up close behind him, but he couldn't move. Big, warm hands steadied themselves on his hips, and he felt warm breath on the back of his neck. "What if I told you you're not the only one who's exhausted?" Arcade asked softly.   
  
"Don't," Wesley said in a harsh whisper, his stomach jumping up into his throat. "Don't fake it, that would be even worse."   
  
"I'm not faking it." Dammit, what Arcade's voice did to him. What those hands did, smoothing across his stomach as long arms wrapped around his waist, tugging him closer to rest back against a familiar torso. "I'm not."   
  
"You  _are_ ," Wesley protested, melting back into him.   
  
"I'm not. I love you. I did my due diligence in fighting it, but I do."   
  
"Then why did you make me  _leave_ ? And don't act like you didn't, you must have dropped a thousand incredibly subtle hints about the New Canaan job."   
  
"Because I'm terrified. You terrify me," Arcade said reverently.    
  
Something in Wesley's chest frayed and broke.   
  
"Look," Arcade said, resting his forehead against the back of Wesley's head. "I can't promise I'm always going to be the easiest person to be with. You're dealing with a lifetime of emotional subterfuge over here. I don't claim to know how I'm going to get over that. But I know how I feel about you. And that's enough for me."   
  
Wesley turned to meet his face, those arms still wrapped around him, holding him close. He wasn't ready for the tenderness in Arcade's eyes, the honesty so elusive he hadn't even dared imagine what it would look like. He could feel his mouth going on autopilot again, and was too tired to stop it. "I've probably fantasized about you saying something like that to me more times than I can count," he heard himself saying. "I never figured out what I say. It never got that far."   
  
"You could just let me kiss you."   
  
"That is an  _excellent_  idea," Wesley grinned breathlessly, his heartbeat reaching record pace as Arcade leaned in, far more slowly than he had any right to, and brushed his mouth against Wesley's, the courier's arms reaching up to circle his neck, lips softly claiming what was his. Arcade's hands wandering the expanse of his back, fingertips ghosting under the hem of his shirt, the kiss turning to tongues and teeth, Wesley arching into Arcade like he was starved for it. He tasted even better than Wesley had remembered.

Clothes were shed piece by piece; the bed was located; all sense of time was lost. Wesley pulled back, straddling Arcade's hips on the bed, to pluck his glasses off and carefully fold them, placing them on the bedside table. Hovering over him to drink in the sight of white-blonde hair disheveled, pale skin flushed and breath catching. A pair of smooth, familiar hands moving up his chest to rest on either side of his neck, thumbs brushing against his jawline. Wesley let his fingernails lightly rake against Arcade's ribs, then smoothing over his chest like he had never touched it before.   
  
"No more running away," Wesley promised quietly, eyes locked on Arcade's as a thumb moved to brush over his lips. He lifted a hand to loosely grip Arcade's wrist. "And no more pushing me away. No more putting me in solitary because of an old world poem."   
  
"In my defense, it was a  _hell_  of a poem," Arcade said with a lop-sided smile, one that Wesley met before leaning down and kissing him, groaning into his mouth as those hands dragged down his body.   
  
When Arcade finally moved within him, it was accompanied with a litany of such promises breathed against his sweat-slicked skin like prayers. He kept his arms locked around Arcade's neck, keeping him as close as he could, legs wrapped around his waist encouraging him to thrust deeper, deeper, as though taking in as much of him as he could would make up for all the time they had lost by being idiots.   
  
All that time was worth it for the way Arcade cursed and shuddered, then tried to hold himself up on trembling arms until Wesley tugged on him, gratefully accepting the way Arcade collapsed on top of him, face buried in the crook of his shoulder. Wesley held him there, one hand on the back of neck, sighing and letting his eyes fall closed as Arcade breathlessly mouthed vague kisses along the trail of his jaw.   
  
Their breathing slowed and grew heavy in their old, familiar rhythm. "Don't fall asleep on top of me," Wesley chuckled after a few minutes, lightly poking him in the ribs.   
  
"Mngh," Arcade answered, heavily shifting off of him to settle beside him, slinging an arm across his shoulders. "Sorry. I've barely slept since you left. The irony is not lost on me."   
  
Wesley grinned sleepily, turning his head to take in one more long sight of the man next to him before letting his eyes fall closed.   
  
  
  
  
Arcade woke up a few hours later, blearily returning to a semblance of consciousness after not even remembering falling asleep. They had forgotten to turn the light off, or at least had been too bone-deep exhausted to move to make it happen. Arcade shifted quietly, turning the lamp off with a soft click.   
  
He heard a deep intake of breath next to him and Wes' sleepy murmur of, "Arcade?"   
  
Arcade situated himself behind Wes' body, angling an arm under his pillow and circling the other around Wes' waist. "It's me," he said softly, lips ghosting the back of Wes' neck. "I've got you."


End file.
